


Among Other Things, I've Taken Up Cursing

by snagov



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Attempt at Humor, First Kiss, Fluff, Footnotes, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Shakespeare, M/M, Pining, Romance, Snark, Snowed In, inspired by clerks, jopson and his machinations, pour one out for my seven years as a bookstore manager, spot the much ado about nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/snagov
Summary: Francis Crozier, beleaguered assistant store manager of Franklin Books, has had just about enough of today.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 23
Kudos: 74





	Among Other Things, I've Taken Up Cursing

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my first attempt at writing humor at all. If it falls flat, well, I tried!

What is that? Ship’s bells. One, two, three. Ah, there, the fourth. Four bells. Francis stands on the quarterdeck, looking up to the crosstrees and mainsail. His captain’s hat snugly set upon his brow and his hands firmly held behind him, carriage upright, a man to be respected. Odd then, isn’t it, that a ship’s captain might have forgotten what time four bells might signal?

Perhaps it is not the bells that are ringing. He pats his person, feeling down the deep pockets, finding loose change and gum wrappers as he goes. Ah, there. His phone. He reaches for his phone from a pocket that is no longer a pocket and instead a pillow. The pillow is more real than the wool of his coat had felt and in a moment, Francis is no longer on the upper deck with the fine, night air around him, but sprawled face-down into his own bed, the only little rocking coming from the deep snoring of a very large dog at the end. 

And his phone is ringing.

“What?” He blinks and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes. The ancient clock across the room shows five-thirty. “No, I can't cover, I have plans today, I’ve the naval history club at three …. Fine, I’ll be there but only till the afternoon, find someone else to close. … Yeah, sure. Alright.”

He hits the button and presses his face into the pillow again, trying get that last precious hour of sleep.

He’s not even supposed to _be_ there today. 

* * *

Somewhere, in the depths of a flat in London, an alarm clock goes off and a behemoth wakes. Francis groans, pulling the limp pillow over his face. He has approximately thirteen seconds of remaining blessed sleep before the monster at the end of the bed will arise and drag him fully into the waking day. Ten, nine, eight …

Sure enough, as punctual as tax season, in precisely thirteen seconds, Francis finds himself using the pillow as a shield defense between his face and Neptune’s excited, slobbering tongue.

“Enough,” he mutters. Though the bite is somewhat softened by the extra few moments he takes to scratch the great Newfoundland dog behind the ears. It’s the same morning as every other morning. The same repetition. Brush your teeth, take a shower, grab a bite of toast. He rubs his eyes blearily, a smear of marmalade just below his lip while thumbing through the day’s paper. He always reads the same sections in the same order. Main page, local interest, business, a glance at sports. His horoscope sometimes. Today, it reads:

_Virgo: Unusual events might put you in the wake of fascinating conversations, Virgo. Keep your ears open, though things might be too strange to believe. Keep an eye on your surroundings. Avoid wearing white._

He fills an old thermos with coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in, and makes for the road. The radio runs in the background. “Weather reports show that the winter storm system is intensifying as it moves toward London. We can expect small flurries this morning but as the evening comes, it’s expected to increase to a blizzard with a snowfall of perhaps several feet and limited visibility.”

Not the finest of weather reports, of course, but surely it’s nothing to worry about.

* * *

His day has not started out well. 

It is the usual sort. Arrive early, winter sunlight following him in his jalopy of a car to the bookstore. He hadn’t bothered to look at the schedule the day before, so the few that flitter in as he unlocks the door are a surprise. Francis is one of the first to arrive. It’s Monday, which means only one awful thing. The Monday morning manager’s meeting. Six bleary-eyed individuals will gather around the battered table in the break room, each bringing some grievance while licking powdered sugar from their fingers. It is eight in the morning, two hours before the bookshop opens. Thirty minutes before Francis' worst fears are realized. His misery is spelled out by linoleum tables and metal folding chairs, weak coffee and stale donuts. 

And James Fitzjames, of course. Miserable bastard.

"Of all the hardships in this business, this might be the worst," Francis groans, rubbing at his bleary eyes. He leans against the doorjamb to the cash office, pulling his lanyard and name tag over his head. 

"One hour, then it's over." Thomas Jopson gives him a half-humoring glance from over his slim shoulder, as he is bent over the desk, counting down the cash drawers. Francis is fond of the young head cashier. Jopson has a quiet demeanor and a spark of sharp wit, leaving one to constantly wonder if they might not have been playing directly into his hands all this time. The sort of deftness and subtlety that Francis would loathe if it were wielded by a man less warm and less loyal. As such, Jopson is a fast friend. 

And, the cunning shit that he is, a _very_ good salesman for store memberships.[1]

"Not if Fitzjames is there," he mutters. "We'll have to listen to that whole saga of him policing the  _Deathly Hallows [_2 _]_ shipment . I'm inclined to shove a doughnut in my ears."

He’s not ready to put up with Fitzjames, not this early in the morning. A great deal of what we can and cannot put up with entirely depends upon the time of the day. 

“He and Franklin switched, I believe.”

“Oh?”

“Franklin sprained his ankle. Last night. You were on the group text - “ Jopson pauses, an amused curl to his smile. “No, I know you. You haven’t read it.” 

“If someone’s got something important they need to say to me, they can very well call me. Like a civilized person.”

“Of course, sir.”

“They switched then, did they?”

“Yes, sir. Franklin will be in for the meeting only.”

“Well… fuck.”

“Seems there’s quite a storm coming through,” Jopson says. “Might get a fair bit of snow tonight.”

Francis grimaces. 

* * *

"To keep up with demand,” John Franklin declares, opening the manager’s meeting. “We’ll be installing a new counter today to sell and service e-readers. Now, I am aware that few of our number have much familiarity with these devices, but we must be thinking outside the box, lads - “ He pauses, glancing over at Silna. She had raised a silent, amused brow. “And ladies, of course. We must think of our impact on the bookselling landscape. This is a strategic game-changer and we _must_ cleave together on supporting this. Focus and work with - “

With synergy[3] , Francis thinks.

“- with _synergy_.”

Francis frowns. "We're a bookstore, not an electronics shop."

"This is where the future of bookselling is, Francis."

"Like Hell it is. Mark my words, John, if you ruin the footprint of print books in the store, Amazon will have turned us all out of jobs before long."

“Francis,” James intones, his face screwed up into a warning. 

“A manager is due his candor. However, I'm afraid that _t_ _his_ shop is  not  a democracy," Franklin says coolly, his mouth turned down into a severe parabola. "And I'd like to announce that our James here will be leading the digital revolution as our new Digital Merchandise Manager." 

James Fitzjames, sitting across the table from Francis, smiles with perfectly white teeth. Francis wonders how early the man gets up to look like this. How early does he rise to perfectly comb and curl his dark hair into shining curls, to polish himself into something so bright and irritatingly shining? His clothes are well-pressed and free of dog hair, something Francis cannot claim for himself.  James Fitzjames had become, and rather quickly, the very deepest bane of Francis’ beleaguered existence. A cross between a lap dog and a rectangular block of wood, Fitzjames had joined Franklin Books three years ago and shows, to Francis’ intense displeasure, no signs of leaving. And now, rubbing salt in the wound, he seems to be just settling in further.

_You look like a damned poodle,_ he thinks, biting his tongue.

* * *

Francis does his rounds of the store, pacing the wood floor with a steady, even beat and his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Even the finest naval eye would find no fault, he imagines proudly, eyes narrowed to pick out the smallest error in an alphabetized shelf. His mind, however, is stuck in another gear entirely. The office is a small room attached to the breakroom, hardly large enough for two people and the ancient computer. Francis had doubled back to the breakroom after the manager's meeting, having forgotten his cup of coffee sludge, and heard voices coming from the office. 

“You should cherish that man, James,” Franklin had said. Francis had stood very still in the breakroom, trying to do his best impression of a nervous cat. “We’re a team, all of us, and we must row this boat together. Someday now, I’ll retire and he’ll be store manager and you’ll be _his_ assistant store manager. Cultivate that, do promise me.” _Cherish him._ Francis snorts, curling his lip. Resentment tastes bitter and it's a bad look on him, so he wears it proudly.

He's still scowling when he passes by the cash register. “Think Fitzjames needs help at the digital counter,” Tom Blanky muses, sitting on his stool. There are very few people Francis finds tolerable and Blanky is one of that rare set. A retired commercial fisherman with a bad leg and a wild laugh, Blanky works the registers part-time. Mostly, as he tells it, for the want of something to do.

"Erebus," Francis mutters. He busies himself with straightening a display. 

"Eh?" 

"The place of darkness." 

"It's an _e-reader_ , Francis. Not Hades." Blanky looks amused at least, shaking his grey-haired head. With his cabled sweater and grizzled beard, he still looks every inch the sailor. 

"Speak for yourself,” Francis grumbles. But he knows his duty and goes anyway.

The counter, to Francis’ intense displeasure, has been installed at the very front of the store. What’s next, he wonders, a full line of computers? Telephones? Tablets? Might as well dump all the books entirely if that’s what it’s coming to. As Blanky had noted, James does have his hands full with several customers peering through the glass counter and getting their greasy hands all over the display models. James seems unflappable as ever, casually checking with each person and smiling with those damn near-perfect teeth.

The trouble, of course, is that his smile is quite something. When he’s not telling a self-aggrandizing tale of bookstore horrors, James has a habit of sitting quietly in the break room, headphones on and staring at nothing, eyes turned inward. Francis, having no pretense of being a favorite of James, might sometimes catch these moments as they quietly pass their break in the same room, each pretending the other does not exist. Unfortunately, it’s these very same moments that Francis cannot stop thinking of. He loathes James Fitzjames, the performer. The embroidered tales, the swashbuckling derring-do of the midnight release of _Breaking Dawn_ and James’ desperate attempts to part the sea of black-clad customers. But there’s something in James himself, when he’s left alone and putting on no airs. A strange melancholy. Loneliness even. Francis finds himself watching how his dark hair curls against his jumper, shining in the fluorescent light. How the shadows catch in the lines of his face, running bleak trails down his cheeks and lingering beneath his eyes. There are moments where Francis wants to say something. To interrupt the silence and reach out across the shale-colored table. Offer something. Camaraderie, maybe. Friendship, perhaps.

Brotherhood.

Then James opens his mouth and the whole illusion is ruined.

Francis stands at the counter, trying to keep his eyes off of his unfortunately attractive coworker, turning the e-reader over awkwardly in his hands. He doesn’t know what to make of the thing. Part of him, a creature of tradition, bemoans the loss of pages, the tactile pleasure of a smooth, glossy printing on a well-made book. The pulpy, cheap feeling of the paper used in a five-pound mass market paperback. He loves the smooth feel of a heavy, well-made page. A binding that opens and curves beautifully enough to drive a librarian to particularly lascivious thoughts. 

It's practically indecent, really. 

“Excuse me,” a woman says, approaching the counter. Her phone is pressed to her ear. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for five minutes!”

He points to a sign without looking up.  _No service if on mobile._

She glares and sets the phone down on the glass counter.

"I'm looking for a book," the woman says. Francis thinks about pointing out that this is the digital counter and not the information desk, that the information desk is, in fact, not thirty paces behind him with a giant sign lit up, the letters two feet tall, spelling Information.

Ah, but a man can dream.

"What's the title?"

"I'm not sure."

"Author?"

"Oh, I can't remember."

"Well, can you tell me what it was about?"

"It was about, well, I think - a boy? Maybe. Or a girl! Or a lawyer. I'm not sure."

Francis stares.

"It was about this big and you had it up on a table near the front at Christmas."

"Ma'am, that was six months ago."

"Oh! And it was blue[4] ."

After sending his customer on her merry way, Francis finds that James is watching him with a curious expression. He cannot quite place it and as he tries, James’ face smooths out again, once more into something as placid and still as a stagnant pond.  "My dear mister disdain, are you yet living?" James’ voice, though polite enough, is clipped. “What do you want?”

“Er,” Francis shifts. “You looked like you might need help.”

James does not appear impressed. “Do you even know how to work one of these?” One of his dark brows arches. The right one. It’s always the right one. Francis hates how damnably compelling it is and forces himself not to stare. 

“It can’t be difficult.”

“Says the man who asks _me_ to Google everything.”

“I know how to use Google,” Francis splutters, his face turning a fetching shade of red, not entirely dissimilar to a squashed tomato. “It’s just - well, you’re better at the search thing - “

“Terms. Search terms.”

“Anyway. I’m delegating. I delegate.”

“Uh-huh,” James says, crossing his arms. Is he amused? That expression might be amusement. Then again, he might very well be about to hurl all of _Les Miserables_ at Francis’ head. The unabridged version. In hardcover.  Francis would be very miserable indeed. He waves a hand in some version of dismissal and storms off to another corner of the store.

To work, of course. Not to pout. 

Never to pout.

* * *

He is deep in the jungle of religious fiction. Around him, in all directions, the shelves march onward with trade paperbacks and mass markets in warm, hopeful colors and parochial covers that would make a Thomas Kinkade painting seem downright scandalous. Yes, here in this heart of darkness, Francis and his weapon, a battered scanner, are all that are left to curb the tide of overcrowded sections and mis-shelved titles.  Francis scans a barcode, tossing another book on the pile to be pulled. Hushed voices drift from the section on the other side. He cocks a freckled ear, half-listening. 

"Absolutely not." Little, it sounds like Little. "He isn’t - you know -I would know. And he’s in love with Francis?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Is … Francis ….?”

"He is. He was with a bloke five years ago." Francis frowns, scratching his cheek. That must be Jopson, of course. Francis shouldn’t be listening to this. It’s a terrible idea. Which means, naturally, that it’s the one he picks. He cannot see the speakers but imagines the two dark heads set together. It's not hard to picture, Ned Little and Thomas Jopson are nearly always to be found together, usually with a high flush on Ned's anxious features. The ever-dour Ned Little is another favorite of Francis'. Always to be found in a flannel and t-shirt from one or another sad indie rock band of middle America, even Francis has to admit he would look charming with Jopson.

Perhaps he should nudge that along. 

“Does Francis know James is in love with him at all?”

Francis nearly chokes. He nearly drops the scanner. James! In love with him? The very absurd idea, the _completely_ preposterous notion of it all. Francis narrows his eyes, a bright sort of suspicion blooming in his chest. Jopson has mentioned that he thinks Francis should try to date. To get himself out there, as Jopson had put it. He’d gone so far as to show Francis how online dating worked.[5]

"How haven’t I known this?”

"You know how Francis is."

"Miserable?"

"Reserved."

"Christ," Little says, sounding floored. “That just - “ 

A man taps Francis on the shoulder. “Excuse me, I see you have a fiction section. Now, where is your  _non-_ fiction section?"

Francis blinks.  _Everywhere else._

“Perhaps it might be best if you tell me what you’re looking for,” he says. He tries to listen for any further snatches of conversation but either the speakers have stopped talking or walked away. Either way, Francis curses the loss of Little’s last sentence and wonders if customers can be clapped in irons.

* * *

The day wears on. Francis watches the snowfall through the long windows and fields questions. It had been a busy morning but, as the snowstorm has worsened, the shop has slowly emptied. The few customers he does meet are the diehard sort, the ones who would brave near-certain death, in fact, all for the blessed smell of commerce in the afternoon. Jopson had left when his shift ended at three, offering an apologetic smile. No one had been found to cover the remainder of Francis' shift. Not that he was surprised. 

He's not even supposed to be here today and God, what a day.

It is five p.m. One hour till closing. There are seven of them left. Seven left, through it all. Seven to make it through what remained of a very long day. Francis and James as closing managers. Silna is shutting down the music department (she's once more donned her comically-large headphones and is blithely ignoring the rest of them). Blanky still mans the registers. Francis is fairly certain that softspoken Harry Goodsir has gone in search of carpet cleaner and a towel for a spot of spilled juice in the children’s section. Francis spares a scowl to Le Vesconte and Little, both cavorting at the information desk in the center of the bookstore, attempting to build a tower from the books left to reshelve.

“No one says _cavorting_ these days, Frank,” Blanky quips, leaning back.

“Well, what the devil else would you call it?”

“Believe in my day, you might’ve called it ‘having fun’?”

“Bully for them, this is a _professional_ environment. Some of us, Tom, are attempting to _work._ ”

“You’re just salty, duck. Salty as a bloody sailor.”

“Shut up, Tom. Or I’ll have you overboard.”

Blanky laughs.

"James," Le Vesconte ( _"Dundy to my friends."_ ) calls from the information desk. "Top five books for a cruise vacation."

"If he names a book not on the Summer Reading table,” Francis mutters, “I’ll eat my hat. I'll eat  _Franklin's_ hat."

“Hope you’ve got a few good recipes for hats in that great big pocket of yours,” Blanky smirks.

James walks over, biting the inside of his cheek in that frustratingly thoughtful manner. “Hell, I’ve no bloody idea.” He scratches his head, pushing his dark hair behind one ear. “I did take _Infinite Jest_ with me on my last trip but still haven’t finished it.’

"I haven't read it," Little says, leaning against the counter. 

“ _Infinite Jest?_ No one's read it."[6] Francis snorts under his breath, watching Blanky crack a smile. “Only bloody peacocks who want _tell_ people they’ve read it.”

“I’ve got another then,” Dundy says. “Top five David Bowie songs to have a nervous breakdown to. Difficulty: no _Space Oddity._ Go."

That’s enough. Francis marches toward the info desk, brandishing a spray bottle and rag. "Get off the counter, Le Vesconte. If you've time to lean, you've damn well got time to clean."

James looks at Francis, amusement lacing his features. As he leans backward, his cream jumper shifts with him, giving far more of an idea of the corded muscles beneath than any weight of wool had a right to.

“What?”

“Dylan, I’m guessing. Or maybe Paul Simon.”

“What the Devil are you on about?”

“What your nervous breakdown songs are. No, better - It’s _Layla,_ isn’t it? The Clapton song?”

“Christ alive, get out of my shop.”

James rolls his eyes. “Not your shop, Francis.”

Francis scowls and heads for the office to do the coming week’s schedule, feeling yet again as if he had lost a game he did not know he was playing.

* * *

"I thought you'd want to hear it from me," the woman's voice says on the other end of the phone. Francis pushes the mobile hard into his ear, rubbing the exhaustion out from between his eyes. "Aunt Jane's running the engagement announcement in the paper next week and - well, I was afraid you might - "

"Might what?"

"Francis, you know as well as I do what your habits are."

He glares. Unfortunately, there's little in this tiny office to terrorize, so the poor thing that bears his wrath is a plush stuffed monkey someone had named Jacko once. He fiddles with a pen, flipping it over his knuckles, half-wishing he might have a switchblade to play Johnny with. 

"You know as well as I do that I've given up the bottle, Sophia. If that is what you are referring to."

"I do," she says, with nothing convincing in her tone. "Of course." When Francis hangs up, staring at the unfortunate Jacko and the blank monitor, it's not the engagement he dwells on but the lack of confidence. He throws his phone on the desk and drops his tired head in his hands, begging for the day to end. Just a little bit more. Just a bit. He's still got takeaway curry in his fridge. He can do this. Man might suffer a great many things for a good curry.

The door opens. Whoever it is pauses at the threshold. "Is that your phone?" James sounds incredulous.

"Yes." 

"You _honestly_ have a Nokia. I didn't think they made those anymore." He sits in the other chair. Francis hates the way James drapes himself across the furniture. The lean bastard. Like a piece of cooked spaghetti in shiny boots and a cream jumper.

"It suffices," Francis mutters. "I don't twit or twiddle or whatever it is."

"Tweet, Francis. The word is _tweet._ I swear to God you’re from another century or something.” The lines around his eyes crinkle in a way that makes Francis feel as if he'd eaten an entire cake and very quickly.

Francis scowls. "Forgive me if I spend my days _reading_ books and not buying them for bloody Instagram pictures. If you ever open them at all."

"What are you saying, Francis?" Fitzjames asks, fury in his dark eyes. "I _read,_ thank you very much."

Francis watches him spin on his boot heel and walk away. " _One-Hundred-And-One Ways To Take A Damned Picture of Yourself_ doesn't count," he mutters after James. 

"Believe the kids are calling that a selfie these days," Blanky calls from the breakroom, sounding amused.

"Don't  _you_ start. I'll be putting you on sodding closing shifts for the next month, swear to God, I will."

* * *

“Francis?” A voice comes. Francis had lingered to finish counting the day's deposit while James was letting the others out. He was still pulling on his hat and galoshes when the door had opened.

“What?” He has a very bad feeling about this.

"Bad news," Little says. 

"Don't tell me the shutters are stuck. Or that someone's died in the bathroom, for the love of all that is holy."

“I don’t think anyone is going anywhere.”

“Please don’t say - “

“The blizzard blew the snow right up against the door.” It's James' baritone this time. Francis turns around to see him standing in the breakroom door, concern netted across his fine features.

“Well, put your shoulder in it, man! Push your way out.”

“Francis,” James says drily, raising a brow at him. “Do you honestly believe I’ve not tried that already? Though you’re certainly welcome to give it a go.”

“I’m not even supposed to _be_ here today,” Francis mutters.

"We _all_ want to get out of here. But I severely doubt we're going anywhere until the storm has passed."

He groans. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I absolutely cannot do this."

"Sure, you can," Blanky says, sounding irritatingly calm. "It's one night, you’ll survive.”

“I'd rather throw myself off a bridge.”

“Fine. Once we’re out of this ice, then you can jump off any bridge you like," James says. "I'll even find you one myself." He stalks away from the office before Francis can get a parting shot in. Pity, he might have had a good one this time.

“The blizzard will be over in the morning." Goodsir is always the calm one. His steady demeanor and gentle words are like Xanax. "The streets will be salted and plowed. Clear roads, right out of here. Then we can all go home. It won't be long.  The radar shows the edge of the storm is close.”

“Close is nothing," Francis mutters. "It’s worse than nothing.”

“Right.”

“Fitzjames probably thinks it’s something.”

He might have heard Little sigh. He can’t tell. “Right, sir.”

* * *

As Francis looks through the cupboards of the breakroom, the irony is not lost on him that he has fought tooth-and-nail against the idea of adding a bookstore cafe for the past ten years. There's nothing. Worse than nothing. The breakroom has the odd collection of leftovers and left-behinds of any shared kitchen.  He looks at the spread of crisps and chips that they'd taken as a bounty from the vending machine. Jopson slurps ramen from a cup. James picks at some cup that looks half like yogurt and half like a strange infestation. Chia seeds, James had said, as Francis looked skeptically on. It's slim pickings here. 

“Christ alive, have any of you seen a vegetable in weeks? You’ll all get scurvy or some such.”

“No one gets scurvy these days," James snaps. "We’re not a bunch of bloody Victorian sailors. Besides, I eat  _healthy_.” 

“People get scurvy! Just look - look it up on your damn phone, why don’t you? And just because your damn yogurt is organic and you’ve half your bodyweight in poppyseeds in there - “ 

“- They’re  _chia_ seeds - ” 

“- does not mean you’re eating bloody healthy!” James' thin, whiplash frame could use with a cottage pie or two, and perhaps a pint of lager. Not that Francis would say that, of course. And not that he's been looking.

“Are you concerned for me, Francis?” James asks, leaning back and flicking his hair over his shoulder. “Frankly, I’m touched.”

He stares into the breakroom refrigerator. 

“Unfortunately for us, not one of us here eats a healthy diet.”

“Do we have anything at all?”

After a thorough search of the refrigerator and cupboards, as well as everyone’s coat pockets and a last-minute dive for the granola bar in Silna’s bag, they turn out three Tupperware containers of unidentifiable contents, four half-empty water bottles, a jar of mustard, and a box of cereal. Oh, and half a pack of gum. Wintergreen, naturally.

“Looks as if we’re to starve,” Francis mutters. 

“Dramatic opening shot,” James says, shooting a glare across the table. 

“What?”

“Honestly, you don’t need to be so melodramatic. It’s one night.”

Goodsir holds up a Tupperware container to the light. "I believe this is the veal cutlet tomato that Cornelius made last week." His face, as everyone's was, looked both doubtful and nervous. (Cornelius Hickey's experiments and schemes were infamous to all. Lately, he has taken to building a pyramid scheme based on canned and prepared foods. He'd brought several containers in of the dish, promising that if you signed up under him as a seller, the riches would pour in and you'd never have to work another day in your life.) 

Still, hunger is hunger and an hour later, Francis finds himself scraping some of it onto a paper plate. He turns the corner to the office and finds someone else already there. Unfortunately, that person was occupying the same exact square foot that he was also trying to and Francis found himself walking directly into James’ surprisingly sturdy chest. The plate in his hand falls, crashing to the tile floor. There are no survivors. Francis stares blinking at the disaster, the red spray of veal cutlet tomato covering the both of them like attendees at Carrie’s prom.

“Well, fuck me.”

“Jesus, Francis,” James says, grabbing paper towels to wipe the spill. He hands a wad to Francis, then bends to wipe his boots. “ _You_ ran into _me._ You could at least - “

“Oh, I could - well, you could - “

“Could what? Announce my presence with a horn at every moment so you don’t attack my person? Wear a flare on my head?”

Francis glares.

“Come here.” James beckons him into the office.

“What? I’m a damn mess, James - “

“Yes, I am _aware_. Which is why you’re coming with me. I keep a change of clothes in here.”

“In case your outfit doesn’t match the day’s bestsellers then?”

James rolls his eyes. He holds out a sweater. Francis eyes it uneasily. “You must be joking.”

“What do you mean? It’s a perfectly good - “

“No, I _know_ it’s perfectly good, you always look good, you great, fussy prick. I mean that you’re, well - that I’m, you know, not your size.”

James stares, quirking up a corner of his lip. It might be a trick of the buzzy, florescent lights, but his eyes appear to dance.

“What?” Francis feels as if he’s done something horribly wrong.

“Francis Crozier, did you just compliment me?”

“I did no such thing.” His flush is as damning as a confession.

“Oh, my dear sir, I do believe you did.” James’ dark eyes are crackling and warm. “This will fit you, I promise.”

And what do you know? It did.

* * *

The night drags on and the blizzard howls at the windows. Francis watches the ice climb the glass, the snow piling up against them. He had read of an expedition once lost in the Arctic, crushed by pack ice and driven up thirty feet upon a pressure ridge. The very oak walls and iron beams warped and bent by the natural force, the men driven to sucking the flesh from each other's bones. At least they're not in the Arctic and cannibalism, while not entirely eliminated, still seems unlikely. 

The yawning, however, is growing worse.

“Look,” Silna says after a particularly wide yawn. “We can each lay down and try to sleep.”

James and Francis both look on in horror. “Not on the comfy chairs?” James asks. “I’d rather sleep on a pile of books.”

“Fate worse than death,” Le Vesconte agrees, “those comfy chairs. Worse than the rack.” 

“What’s wrong with the comfy chairs?” Goodsir asks, blinking. He looks over to the nearest one. 

"Don't sit there," James says.

"Why?"

"Just trust me.[7] Let’s just say it’s best left to the imagination and an industrial steam cleaner," Francis sighs. "I suppose we might just ball up our own coats then, eh?”

James nods, running a long-fingered hand over his face. He looks tired. The lines in his cheeks are dark and shadowed. Three lines cross his forehead as he blinks rapidly, his eyes red-rimmed and stubbornly awake. 

“Well, sirs,” Goodsir says, pausing. “I don’t suppose that we might try the stuffed animals? That we sell in the children’s department. Perhaps we might use those to sleep on?”

The stuffed animals are a stroke of luck in an otherwise desolate day. Francis has found himself now still awake, somewhere between two bells and three, watching how the streetlamps cast faint chiaroscuro lights and shadows on the wallpaper. It’s a green pinstripe. God, he’s never really noticed how faded it is. Just look at the difference in color intensity between that part here, where the light hits, and over behind the bookcase on the other side. When was the last time they had replaced it? For that matter, when was the last time this place had had a good clean scrub? That sign over the information desk, surely it hasn’t been dusted since it was hung up, a good ten or twelve years ago. The dust must be sentient by now, really, and likely plotting a mutiny with the rats - 

A snore echoes off the hardcovers and shelves. Francis presses his thin mouth into an even more narrow line and stares at the shadows on the ceiling, faintly wondering when his punishment might end. He isn’t certain who the snoring devil is. Blanky, perhaps. 

He does know it isn’t James. Unfortunately, for some strange and certainly nefarious purpose, James has set up his bed next to Francis’ own. A too-steady stillness comes from the long lump of darkness next to him; Francis knows that James is finding sleep as fashionably late of a visitor as he himself is. He wonders what James thinks of the wallpaper. 

“What time do you suppose it is?” James asks softly, Francis affects a snore. “Oh, come off it, I know you’re not sleeping.”

“How would you know?” 

“You’re a terrible liar. Truly, Francis, one of the worst.”

“Shut up,” Francis hisses in a whisper.

“It’s a quality. It’s endearing.”

Francis is quiet. It sounds teasing yet - yet somehow it doesn’t feel as if it is. He shifts and rolls over, seeing that James is already laying on his own side, staring at him with dark eyes. The little light catches in them, leaving them wide and solemn. There is it again, that damnable thoughtfulness and gentle melancholy. His hand twitches from where it lays across his own belly, wanting to reach out and tuck the other man’s hair behind his ears. 

“Will it stain?” He asks. “Your shirt, I mean. I am sorry for spilling that blasted sauce all over you.” 

There is a brief pause, then a small smile finds its way to James’ mouth. “Nothing a good stain treatment and dry cleaner can’t get out, I’m sure.” He chews his lip again. “But thank you, Francis.” 

Francis holds his breath. He had only meant to apologize for the unfortunate tomato affair, yet something of the apology and acceptance both seemed larger than tonight. Once again, he is playing a game he does not know the rules of. And a game without rules is not one that any man can hope to win. 

Still, it’s nice, not arguing. And when James smiles, those deep lines ease from his face. 

“Look at us,” James says. “An entire minute without arguing.” 

“Don’t start, I’ve plenty more saved up.”

The smile disappears. “I do not doubt it.”

Francis’ chest tightens, watching James roll onto his back and take those dark eyes away. He’s done it again, putting his own foot in his mouth. At this point, he might as well marinate his own boots for how frequently he tastes them. “James - I didn’t mean - It was a joke and a bad one at that.”

“I know, Francis.” He has an impish look then, glancing back to him. “Besides, I can’t very well cut you out now, you’re wearing my jumper.” 

He is and it is very soft, made of cable-knit Irish wool in a gentle oatmeal color. Just as James had promised, it fits him well. He breathes in and there’s the faintest hint of laundry detergent. Something of a clean breeze smell. Or mountain wind. What would it smell like on James himself? What might James Fitzjames smell like, were Francis to kiss his crown and bury his nose in that fine mess of shining hair? Floral hair oils? Sandalwood aftershave and vetiver cologne? How would it mix with the clean, comforting scent of this jumper, into wool and open wind?

“My shirt must be dry by now, I can change and give it - “

“No,” James shakes his head. “Keep it for now.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“Very comfortable. I picked it up in Blarney.”

“When you went last year?”

“And here I’d thought you never paid any attention to me,” James grins. 

“I pay attention to you.” He had meant it to sound indignant but it comes out soft in his whispered voice. He swallows, flushing. James watches him, staring. “Besides,” he says, trying to change the subject. “Anything made in Ireland is all well and good in my book.”

James grins. “Northern Ireland, right?”

“Aye, Banbridge and thereabouts.” 

“Why did you come to London?” 

“A girl.”

“Ah, right. Miss Cracroft, I presume.”

“The same. Long over now.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” 

“Doesn't matter." He'd gotten two things out of that relationship: the dog and a drinking problem.

“Would you want to go back? To Banbridge, I mean?”

“No. My life is here now. Among you infuriating English types.”

“I’m not English.”

“What?” Francis blinks.

“I’m adopted. I never knew my birth parents.” It’s quietly said. Francis raises his brows in surprise but holds his breath, listening. “I don’t even truly know anything of them save for bits of gossip here and there. Just that my father was posted abroad and my mother was likely Portuguese. I’m just - well, the bastard product of an affair.” There’s a bitter lacing to his voice. “Thank God none of that really matters these days.”

"I didn't know any of that," Francis says quietly. 

"Yes, well," James says, an odd set to his jaw. "I never said anything."

There is an interval the size of a pillow between them. Francis finds his hand reaching out, falling on James’ firm shoulder. James’ mouth is in a tight, thin line, his eyes look wet. James rests his own hand over where Francis holds him. His skin is very warm. 

“The past does not matter, James, you can build any life for yourself that you choose.”

“I think I’d like to have something of my own someday. Just own a small bookshop. Nothing fancy.”

“You’d be good at it,” Francis murmurs. “Better that than going down with this blasted sinking ship.”

"Francis," James chuckles. "You should be careful, I believe you’ve complimented me twice now in an evening.”

Francis colors. “It’s late.”

“Or early,” James observes wryly.

“So, who was it for you? With their “secret conversation’ today? It was Jopson and Little I came across, while zoning in Religious Fiction - talking nonsense about how you’re in love with me. Utter malarkey, we’re in a bookstore, as if I’d never seen _Much Ado_ \- “ He trails off, realizing three critical things:

1\. James has a bewildered look in his eye.  
2\. He has flushed a very deep shade of red, a level Francis was previously unacquainted with (but would like to know more).  
And perhaps the most important,  
3\. James is not laughing.

He stays very still, his cheek pressed to the belly of the bear, staring into James’ very wide eyes. In the dark, they look nearly black.

“You didn’t overhear anyone, did you?”

“….No.”

 _Blast it._ Then, if Jopson and Little had not been trying to pull off a prank, if they had not been trying to matchmake or pull the wool over his eyes, to rib him, if it had been an honest conversation with honest beliefs…

“But you’re not in love with me, they’re mistaken.”

James flushes an even deeper, more fascinating shade. He says nothing but the blush is as damning as signing his name to a written confession.

“But you loathe me.”

“I’ve never loathed you, Francis,” James says, at last, finding his voice in that bucket of red. “Well, I’d happily strangle you sometimes, you’re the most infuriating bloody man, I swear to God.”

“But - “ Francis arches a brow. He leans forward, breathless. Suddenly, he’s not the slightest bit tired. He watches how James licks his lower lip. God in Heaven, that thin, imperious mouth, just two blessed feet away across the carpet.

“Ugh, don’t - “ James rolls on his back, staring up at the foam tiles of the ceiling. Francis reaches out, covering James’ hand with his own. Here, under his touch, James’ skin is very warm and his hand is very still. Francis hears him take a deep breath and clear his throat. “Make fun of me for anything else, Francis, please. I beg you. Not this. I’ve done well enough ignoring it this long, we might continue with that.”

There is not the slightest inclination Francis would ever have to tease James about this. To kiss him, yes. To pull that man close to him, to tear his ridiculous jumper off with his teeth, certainly. Suddenly, Francis is far too keenly aware that they are still in the store and that five other people sleep near them, only a few paces away.

“Never -did you say ‘this long’?” He swallows. “How ... long exactly?”

James groans. He covers his face with his free hand. “Too long.” There is a silence for a moment. “Three years.”

“All this time?”

“Please, just drop it. Just ignore it. Go to sleep.”

“James.”

“Seriously, it’s really not that interesting. You’ve had your fun, Francis, I’m done speaking of this - “

“ _James_.”

“What?”

“You great, bloody idiot.”

James turns to look at him, blinking. His mouth parted and brow furrowed.

“Would that I might have known three years ago,” Francis continues, pulling gently on the hand beneath his. He can feel James’ small finger twitch below his own. “Or I would have done this sooner.” And with that, he leans up and over the two feet, pressing his mouth to James’ own in a kiss. Simple, chaste. Dry.

“Oh my God,” James whispers as Francis breaks from him. Somehow James’ free hand has found its way to the side of Francis’ face, rubbing a long, skinny thumb over the textured skin. His eyes are shining and as black the bellies of spiders and the depths of caves. That thoughtfulness again. If Francis is truthful, it never leaves James' eyes, even when he's teasing or coy. Francis might love that about him. When he speaks, his thin lips brush against Francis’ own. Francis shivers. James trails his mouth and hands along Francis' jaw and face, nosing into where the jumper meets his neck. "I bought this because it reminded me of you. And in your size, so that - Well, sometimes I would wear it and pretend it was yours. Hopeless, I know." 

Francis' heartstrings knot tighter and he kisses James again. Never has he been a man of many words. “Wish we weren’t in this godforsaken store,” Francis mutters, running his restless, fascinated hands over James’ cheeks and sharp jaw. His thumb proceeds along the muscles of James’ lean, pale throat, watching how the Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. There's heat in his stomach and his spine, as if he were a boy of sixteen and not a miserable, greying fifty. An impish gleam steals across James. 

“Come with me,” James says, pulling Francis toward the restroom. Their fingers interlace and the door shuts firmly behind them.

Thank God he’d thought to have that lock replaced.

* * *

The roads were cleared by eight in the morning, each employee stumbling gratefully into their release. Ned Little shuts the door to his flat, turning the lock behind him and hanging his coat upon the hook. His boots are left in the hallway, in a pile next to another pair, neatly arranged.

“How was it?” He glances up. Thomas Jopson stands there, hair still mussed from sleep, his chin dark and unshaven. He's wearing one of Ned's flannel shirts. A fine hunter green that sets off his eyes. It makes Ned's blood grow thick and warm.

“Slow going at first, but they got there. Thank you for the earplugs, by the way.”

“Of course. We really need to have those walls soundproofed.” Thomas pauses, musing. “I suppose if I put it to Francis that customers have been complaining that too many sounds come from the bathroom, he’ll get the same idea about soundproofing and mention something to Franklin.”

Ned shakes his head, amused. He looks up again, admiring the shrewd intelligence of Thomas’ face, the warm curl of his smile. The way the morning light catches in his pale irises, the color of dawn.

“There’s coffee on, love,” Thomas says, holding out a hand. “Or, you can just come back to bed.”

Well, as with all questions, there's always a right answer and a wrong one. The coffee can wait.

* * *

1 “The membership does have a price, but based on what you have here, you’d already have made half of it back. You’re a great reader, sir, I do see you in here all the time. I just hate to think of how much you might have saved on all those books.” [return to text]

2 "She offered me 500 pounds to sell a copy early. Naturally, I said no. Then I was poked by her, here in the side. With the tip of her umbrella, as hard as a musket ball. Just as you see."[return to text]

3 Once, in 1992, Franklin had read a self-help book for the up-and-coming businessman and has used the word “synergy” approximately 3.4 times per week since. Other particular favorites of note are “innovate” and “paradigm shift”.[return to text]

4 It was red.[return to text]

5 Francis had, on one particularly lonely night in his flat, found himself creating an account on this same site later. He did not get particularly far, however, before a baseball bat of a question had taken him out at his knees and he'd slammed his laptop shut. The question that had so stumped him was “Create A Username”. [return to text]

6 In fact, the percentage of use of _Infinite Jest_ as a doorstop instead of a book is 99 percent to 1. [return to text]

7 The sheer horrors that a bookshop's comfortable chairs have seen are not fit for print and best left to the imagination. [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a play on "Among Other Things, I've Taken Up Smoking" by Aoibheann Sweeney.


End file.
